Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Friday, November 27th, 2017▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
"I broke him." Amelie slaps her hand over her mouth as we stand in the rain, in the parking lot of the store she works at. "I broke him." She repeats through her fingers and stares into my eyes. I don't know what she wants me to say. I'm shit at consoling women. I didn't expect her to fall apart too when I repeated to her what Marguerite explained earlier: Ben went into one of his unresponsive episodes when Am told him she was moving to France.
"Fuck, Am, you didn't break him," I say. Mom always touches my arm, when she's trying to calm me down, so I put my hand on her shoulder. Maybe it'll help. "He's not a toy." I make sure my voice is gentle. "But something like this was inevitable. You turned his world upside down. It was a matter of time."
"Is Ben okay? Really okay?"
"As okay as he can be. I was hoping you could come and talk to him."
"Let's go." Amelie runs to her car.
The ride to Ben's apartment, following Am's car, is less damp than my ride to the store, but the wind has picked up, and the combination of the dark, the high winds, and the wet roads takes the remaining energy out of me. I have to concentrate and pay attention to every little thing to keep Beauty from leaning too far, fighting against the wind pushing us off course.
The brightness of the underground garage is jarring. I put away my helmet. My neck is stiff and cold from the wind, and the flickering ceiling lights pierce through my eyes and into my head, intensifying the sharp pain in the back of my skull. The clock in the elevator lobby reads nine-oh-two. I don't understand how it's not midnight already. Am stands next to me, deep in thought, and I'm relieved she's not asking any more questions. I have no advice to give her.
Marguerite greets us at the entrance to Ben's apartment and lets Am in. I usher Marguerite's fragile form out and close the door on Amelie's expectant face. Ben's mom leans against the wall, and I put one arm around her, giving her my hand for support.
"He's going to be fine," she says to herself or to me, it's hard to say. A sob escapes her lips. I've been through this stuff with Ben before when he was younger, and although it's been a while since he worried his mother this much, I know she's right. Ben will be fine. He can take care of himself. His Mom though? I focus on Marguerite. His mom is the one I'm worried about.
"He will." I make sure to sound certain.
She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief and whispers, "Thank you." The worry in her eyes looks so much like what I saw on Am's face in the parking lot.
Two women in distress in one day.
Mom better be asleep when I get home, cause I can't manage a third attempt at being a rock. I'm so fucking tired, but I don't show it to Marguerite. She's been like a second mother to me over the last ten years. I've spent more time at her apartment playing computer games with Ben when we were teenagers than in my own home. If Ben can't take care of his mom, it's a duty I can take over. Marguerite steadies herself, and I gingerly escort her to the elevator then deposit her onto a couch in the first-floor lobby.
"I'll get you a ride." I take out my phone and enter Marguerite's home address into the app. Even if she drove here, she's in no state to drive back, and I regret not having Mom's minivan again. "Your rideis going to be here in seven minutes. I'll wait with you."
We don't talk. I put my hand on top of hers. My mind goes back to ten years ago when my mom was sitting on a suitcase outside of the mansion in Calabasas that was no longer ours, waiting for a taxi that got the three of us to the flight taking her, Louka, and me from Los Angeles to Chicago. I couldn't do anything for Mom or Louka then, and I can't do much for Ben's mom now. I'm powerless yet again, and the control I cherish so much is slipping. Marguerite's silent tears remind me of the ones Mom was hiding from us, and no different from her tears after the IRS raided our house and took Dad out of it in handcuffs. Women's tears make me angry. If I can't take care of the people who mean the world to me, what's the point of me building this adult life? The heat rises inside and melts the locks that keep my moods at bay.
I'm angry again.
So angry.
After I close the door of the car that takes Marguerite to her place, I don't go back home. If I don't do something to the feelings that are destroying me from within, I won't be the only one hurt. I ride Beauty to the dojang. The building is dark and quiet. "Chang's Taekwondo Academy" sign is turned off. I unlock the door with my key and change into my dobok.
Control is what I'm seeking. I sink into the routine of movements, kicks, and punches. My body knows what to do. I am the strong one. I can find a way to help them all. I'm smart enough to figure it out. As I move through the space, my breath is increasingly hard, and my mind tries to work through the problems. Dad. Angie. Louka. Mom. Ben. Amelie. Marguerite. Angie.
I punch faster, kick higher, and lose myself in the rhythm. By the time I stop, I'm drenched in sweat, but I'm nowhere close to solving anything. The headache hasn't left the back of my head, but my anger has dwindled. For now, I'm in charge, and I listen to the rapid beats of my heart. Fast, but steady. That's when I can detect the small portion of Angie's lightness lingering around it.
I find my phone, and sure enough, it's almost midnight. I find the text Angie sent from my phone this morning and don't see any other messages or missed calls. I guess we have to play the 'wait a couple of days before texting' game. I hate this game, but I don't want to mess this up. I want to see Angie again, and I can wait. At least till morning. The half-hour ride back to the suburbs in the gusty rain keeps me awake, even though the sleepless night and the eventful day are catching up with me, and the exhaustion drains my body.
With Beauty in our garage, I creep into the dark house, turn on the light on the exhaust fan over the stove and paw around in the cabinet for a protein shake. The shelf's empty. I restrain my urge to slam it shut. I open the fridge. The same beer and lemon stare at me. What a fitting ending to this day. I forgo food and shower, peel off my damp clothes, and crawl under the covers of my twin bed. The poster of Bruce Lee I taped to the ceiling years ago gets out of focus, and I see Angie's face instead. So fucking beautiful.
